


what doesn't kill me (makes me want you more)

by bleuboxes



Category: Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: ANYWAY wrote this bc claire and jamie invented het love so, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Pining, Romance, Slow Burn, Why Did I Write This?, here's my take., id say enemies but they never explicitly hate each other so thats pushing it, p i n i n g, yeah - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-05-20 14:48:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19378894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bleuboxes/pseuds/bleuboxes
Summary: She came to Scotland to unwind, to be limitless and to lose herself in the mundane and the natural. Instead she’s staying at a bed and breakfast with a woman who thinks time travel through magic rocks is a normal occurrence and with a two hundred year old man who looks younger than her twenty-seven year old ex-boyfriend. Additionally, she’s been volunteered to show said man around a country that she’s only barely familiar with.AKA: Jamie ends up in 2019.





	what doesn't kill me (makes me want you more)

**Author's Note:**

> helllloooooo darlings.
> 
> recently became absolutely OBSESSED with this tv show. like no sleep needs to get thru all the seasons obsessed. mostly bc claire and jamie ABSOLUTELY invented het romance and like,, im not even joking i love them so much,, PARENTS.
> 
> Anyway. 
> 
> i wanted to write a thing after searching thru the tags - found some really good stuff in there, mind u, but u know when u like want to read a particular fic and theres just nothing like it written yet and ur like damn looks like i have to now????
> 
> bc yeah thats what happened. this fuckin,,, monster. 
> 
> ALSO: special thanks to my DARLING TALENTED AMAZING WONDERFUL friend theshippingprince who really helped me figure out where the FUCK this thing was going. i kinda just,,, started writing it. if it wasn't for them i would not have a coherent plot or bone in my body. so BIG thanks to them. 
> 
> this is a two part thing, which is absolutely insane considering its a fuckin MONSTER already. i just really hate myself. not sure when part two will be out, but hopefully by the end of next week - if not, pls do not come for me i am BUSY okay?? prepping for my brothers grad party and taking an online english course. regardless. i really enjoyed writing this and i cant wait to post the whole thing. 
> 
> anyway, i hope you enjoy. i made a playlist for the music in this fic bc i was ~ procrastinating ~ writing it. i will try to set up a link for it at the bottom. 
> 
> title is from taylor swift's cruel summer bc DAMB that song gets it. 
> 
> (also pls excuse any grammar/spelling mistakes that i might have missed)

Look, there’s a reason Claire’s taking a semester off in Scotland, okay?

She just –

She’s been through a lot. And she knows that if she didn’t take a break, her grades would suffer, she’d lose her scholarship, and what’s left of her life-plan would completely hit the fan.

That’s the _last_ thing she needs.

What she does need, however, is her scholarship. She needs be able to get into a good medical school.  She needs time and energy, and she needs to feel like life is worth living.

She _needs_ it – more than one needs air to breath or any sort of necessity.

These are the the only things she’s got left, now that her uncle is dead, Frank’s left her for that pretty, young blonde (and kept the cat), and she’s out of a home.

So that’s why she’s left her cozy, practical, wonderful life in Boston, why she’s left Harvard and everything else behind for a little while – so that she can be alone – perfectly peacefully, and blissfully alone -  in the Scottish Highlands.

Here, she’s nobody special. She can grieve in peace; she can rage in any way that she deems fit and necessary. She can drink and cry and venture like there’s nothing else in the world that matters. She kind of likes that about the Highlands, you know – she can allow herself to be spontaneous, reckless. She doesn’t have to have everything planned out.

The planning is for later, for now – Claire has decided to take it day by day.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Today, she decides to take a ride through the country side – remembering what Mrs. Baird from the bed and breakfast told her about some of the sights and landmarks. Apparently, there’s a nice field close to this stone circle thing (that’s supposedly magic, whatever that means) – with beautiful flowers and other plants that Claire’s interested in checking out (she did let Mrs. Baird know of her interest in botany).

Most of all, she’s just looking for a place to lie down, stare at the sky, and pretend she’s decomposing.

Which, she supposes is a bit morbid, but it’s a rather peaceful image.

The drive to her destination is relaxing. The cars windows are cracked, she’s got her music blasting, and she’s trying her damnedest to not ruin her voice by screaming along to the Lorde songs she’s playing as she winds through the Scottish countryside. She is undoubtedly disturbing the peace, but she thinks she’s earned a pass at that with everything that’s happened to her.

 

* * *

 

 

When she reaches a point on the road where she can see the stones on the hill (which she now remembers are called Craigh na Dun), she pulls the car over, and sits for a minute in absolute silence.

Well, not absolute.

There’s the rustling of the grasses and plants, the odd bird calls, the sound of the late summer breeze through the trees that are scatted among the stones on the hill.

Maybe Mrs. Baird was right. Perhaps this place _is_ magical.

Regardless, Claire knows it’s going to be a wonderful place to lie down for a little while and pretend that she’s just another blade of grass.

 

 

* * *

 

 

While she originally has no interest in checking out the stone monument that sits at the top of the hill, her curiosity gets the better of her.

History might not have ever been something that interested her, but she’s always had a fascination with ancient things – surely because of all the time spent with her uncle on digs during her childhood. Regardless, she’s fascinated by the stones – how old they are, how they got into the specific and intricate position that they rest in the first place. She runs her fingers gently across the middle stone, the biggest. Closing her eyes, taking a deep breath, she thinks of her uncle Lamb – briefly, taking in the smoothness of the rock, the coolness – letting it possess her body and soul for a brief moment.

But one can only admire rocks for a certain amount of time before one loses interest – despite the ancientness and beautiful location. She’s off to the field below the stones to look for plants and to lie down and rest for a little while.

She smiles to herself. Today is going to be quiet and good.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

Since then, she’s been back to that same place a few times. It’s where Claire goes when she needs to get away from it all – from the hustle and bustle of Inverness, from Mrs. Baird and her incessant chattering about how she knows some nice eligible young men, from her new friend, Geillis Duncan (who has a very grey moral compass that is sometimes just too much for Claire), from the non-stop phone calls from her friend Joe, back in Boston, and from her own thoughts and fears which are sometimes too much to deal with without the cradling embrace of the landscape around Craigh na Dun.

So yes.

It’s Halloween, and instead of going out pub-crawling with Geillis like she had planned, she’s out here – in the dark, wrapped in her blanket and her puffy coat – listening to the world like it’s a Hozier song – the lyrics, the undertones, the bass, the everything else (forgive her, she isn’t very musically minded).

What she means to say is that she’s paying attention.

The moon is bright and full, the stars are out and shining – the lack of light pollution is something that Claire will never stop being thankful for. Nights like these, with the chill in the air and the soft, bright sky above her head help her think, help her figure out what she’s going to do next.

Maybe it’s time to consider going back.

Time, as it seems, has other plans for her.

It’s at that moment, while she’s in the middle of humming her favorite song, mind you, that she hears a loud rustle coming from the hill above the field. She sits up, quickly, quietly. She can tell that the maker of the noise is deliberately trying to be quiet, but they keep getting louder, closer.

She decides to make a break for her car – whatever it is thats moving towards her– she thinks she’ll be safer within the vehicle than exposed in the middle of a field during the night.

She stands up and makes her way to the car, the rustling is still loud, but she’s in the driver’s seat with the doors locked before it’s upon her. She lets out a sigh of relief, only then realizing how panicked she really was – perhaps she should get better acquainted with the wildlife in the area – or worse – perhaps this place is magical. 

She lets out a small giggle at the audacity of that thought. Magic is not real. Halloween is full of spooks for children. Magic rocks are absolute and utter horse-shit; she trusts what she can see and hear and understand fully.

Which is why she lets the whole matter go; she texts Geillis that she’ll meet her in twenty minutes and starts her car with a turn of her keys.

That’s when a grown-ass _man_ smashes up against her window. Claire, who is not accustomed to such findings, jumps higher than she ever has before, and screams bloody murder. She tries to crawl away from the window, forgetting she has her seatbelt on – _oh God he’s got a knife._

And she’s got a plastic fork in the glove compartment, which won’t do much damage, but it will make her feel better.

She unbuckles her seatbelt, crawls over to the other chair, opens the glove compartment and snags the fork – holding it out in his direction; then she notices he’s not on that side anymore.

He’s now banging on the passenger window. _Wonderful_.

She decides to ignore him for a minute while she tries to compose herself. She’s not dying here. Absolutely not. She’s far too young and has dealt with far too much to be stabbed to death in the middle of Absolutely Nowhere, Scotland.

She takes a deep breath, lets out a whisper of _what the fuck,_ maneuvers herself in a way where she isn’t going to get stabbed if he falls through the window, and rolls the window down – only a quarter of the way, mind you.

“What the _fuck_ is your problem?” she shouts. He looks at her, quizzically. She can’t see much of his face, as it’s shrouded in the darkness of the night – but he looks dirty – and young. And he’s got the _strangest_ Halloween costume on.

“My problem? What in god’s name is this...this thing yer in?” he asks, genuinely. _Jesus Christ_ , this guy must be _wasted_.

“Look, buddy,” she says, “It’s Halloween, I’m all for a good spook, but you’re drunk, and I’m fucking tired, so as long as you promise not to stab me with that knife, I’ll give you a ride to town,” he doesn’t budge, “I’ll put the fork down, look see?”

For some reason this makes him laugh briefly. She’s pretty sure he’s trying to cover it up, but what does she know.

Regardless, she’s still waiting for an answer when he replies: “I'd appreciate the ride, lass. And I wont stab ye, I promise.”

Claire smiles, she’s not sure why, but she does as she unlocks the doors. He just stands there, outside in the dark like a lame duck.

“Are you getting in the car, or no?” She asks

“Aye, just, uh,  how do I go about doing that?”

“Grab the door handle and pull? It’s not that hard to do, _Jesus_.”

He does exactly that, pulling way too hard. Claire would have laughed if it was anyone other than him. He looks more confused than ever now, looking at the interior of her car – and now that the interior lights on she’s able to get a good look at him.

The first thing – he’s got red hair. Like _really_ red hair. Unmistakably red hair – that’s curled at the edges and falls long – just long enough, that Claire thinks, he’d probably be able to tie it into a little pony tail in the back if he so desired. The next thing – is his eyes – piercing blue like she’s never seen. The color, it’s something out of one of those novels she had to read for English class that she so hated – where everything is described in such vivid language that it can’t possibly be real.

But that’s how his eyes are. So blue she can barely even put them to words.

Third – is that he is, perhaps, one of the largest men she’s ever seen (and is a little worried that he isn’t going to fit into her little Fiat). He’s built like one of those American football players – strong all over – big legs, big arms, big body in general, really. And he’s tall. Really tall – even for Claire, and she’s by no means a short woman.

And the next is his outfit. She bites back a laugh – he looks like one of the founding fathers but in a kilt. tThe outfit is, well first of all, it’s dirty. Covered in dirt and what looks like is blood. Which is _fantastic_ for the white seats in her car.

(She quick tells him to wait a second before sitting down so she can lay the blanket she was previously wrapped in on the seat, so he doesn’t ruin the interior of her car.)

But his outfit is also the most all over the place thing she’s ever seen. What really gets her going are the almost thigh-high boots he’s got on – really make the whole thing pop, you know?

It’s like he’s some Scottish Highlander Ariana Grande wanna-be.

 _Hilarious_.

And finally, his face – in general – is really, rather pleasant to look at (despite the apparent dirt and grime). He’s got a strong, angular face – pretty eyes (as discussed earlier), chapped lips that her eyes keep wandering too, and a light shading of red stubble.

He _is_ handsome.

She kind of wishes she’d be able to see him looking like a normal person instead of like this.

After what feels like eons, he sits in the car. His knife is placed gently on his lap, and he shuts the door with a slam that’s fit for the gods.

What the hell has she gotten herself into.

She picks up her phone, aware of his lingering gaze, and debates putting on music for the ride.

She decides that no matter what it’s going to be a trip, so she might as well have fun with it.

“What are we thinkin', Halloween playlist or Lady Gaga for the ride back to town?”

“Uh –“

“Yeah, I think Lady Gaga has the right vibe and intensity for this journey,” she pauses, “I’m Claire, by the way. Claire Beauchamp.”

“James Fraser.”

“Pleasure to meet you.”

He gives her a look, and she has to say she agrees.

“Yeah, okay; i agree. That’s pushing it.”

She doesn’t have anything more to say, so she lets _Bad Romance_ do the talking.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The ride back to Inverness is not pleasant, but he doesn’t try to stab her, which is good. He seems more interested in the fixings of the car and of the scenery outside – which is barely visible – it’s only when they get close to town that you can see something other than the silhouettes of the trees and bushes.

She attempts conversation – pleasantries at most – and tries to figure out where exactly he lives or is staying in town. All she gets is some intense muttering in what she believes to be Gaelic, so she just ignores it and decides to spring him on Mrs. Baird.

The woman runs a bed and breakfast for a reason – and Claire knows she has an extra room for him to at least stay the night. Plus, Mrs. Baird knows everybody. Perhaps she’ll know what to do with James Fraser.

 

 

* * *

 

 

When Claire finally makes it back to town and parks her car, helps James get out of said car, and makes it back to the bed and breakfast, Mrs. Baird is idly chatting with Geillis, who is dressed in a skimpy witch costume – pointy hat and all. They both turn to Claire – Geillis with a look on her face which clearly is asking _who’s the hunk_ and Mrs. Baird with a look that reads _oh god, please not this again._

“Mrs. Baird, this is James Fraser – would you be able to get him a room for tonight?”

She nods, taking him in up and down, then ushers Claire and Geillis upstairs. James just stands there, looking a bit like a fish out of water in his kilt, dirty shirt, his knife or whatever the fuck it is, and his thigh high boots.

“Where in god’s name did you find him?” whispers Geillis as they enter Claire’s room.

“I wish I had the answer to that,” she sighs, “let me get ready and I’ll tell you all about it.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

They don’t end up going out. Claire gets so caught up in her story, Geillis breaks out the wine, and the next thing she knows they’re singing and dancing along to ABBA’s album, _Voulez Vous_ , a little too loud and Claire is probably screaming about her strange encounter, but she doesn’t care.

It _was_ strange.

But, it’s Halloween for fucks sake, she’s allowed to get drunk and have a good time in what appears to be a sad cat costume.

It’s three a.m. when she and Geillis finally crash on the carpet and the bed, respectively. Claire remembers hoping that the whole encounter with the strange man was a dream, that she’ll wake up in the morning and go back to her nice, lulling routine – without handsome men with strange outfits and knives and swords who don’t know what cars are.

 

 

* * *

 

 

She wakes up later than she would like. She sits up, and rubs her face, which is covered in little indentations from the carpeting. It’s red, but it’ll fade. She’s got a splitting headache, and looks over to see Geillis, still sleeping soundly on the bed. Claire stands up, quietly and hobbles over to her luggage, grabs a large sweatshirt, a pair of shorts, her toothbrush, toothpaste, and hairbrush, then heads to the bathroom to turn herself into some sort of person instead of the gremlin she is right now.

By that she means she's still slightly drunk, in a cat costume, with makeup smeared over her face.

The thing about the bathroom, though is that its right down the hall and across from the one of the other bedrooms– not that this information is too relevant because there is absolutely nothing interesting going on in the hallway – unless you call watching Claire trying to walk to the bathroom entertaining (which it is, honestly) – right now.

She washes her face, brushes her teeth, tames her hair, and changes her clothes.

She doesn’t look great, but she looks like a college student instead of a gremlin, so that counts for something. She returns to her room to put her shit away. Geillis hasn’t moved an inch, so Claire decides to go down stairs to see if Mrs. Baird has put out tea or biscuits or something ingestible.

She heads to kitchen – where she finds biscuits set out on the table – along with a note.

She’s gone out with Mr. Fraser to town, something about paperwork. She’ll be back at around one.

Claire checks the clock – it’s 12:30 now. She shrugs, grabs three biscuits and a tall glass of water before heading to the living room, plopping herself on the couch and starts scrolling absentmindedly through her Instagram feed.

She grumbles to herself as she goes along – seeing all the people she knows back at school, happy, living life carefree bothers her. She knows that it’s all just a filtered reality of what is actually happening in their lives but god, seeing Vanessa Sebastianelli from one of her bio classes in a cute outfit with an even cuter guy with some stupid hashtag about loving life as a comment really makes her blood boil.

Occasionally she’s come across a good meme or two (she particularly enjoyed one about rats in the 14th century).

She’s not sure how long she’s there, munching, grumbling, and scrolling, but she’s there long enough to hear the door open, to hear the quiet high Scottish voice of Mrs. Baird and the deep rumbling Scottish voice of someone else – oh _god._

James. James Fraser. Psycho with the knife who came out of nowhere and didn’t know what a car was.

The voices, while still hushed, are growing louder – Claire’s about to panic – not wanting them to know she’s here and awake –

So she pretends to be asleep on the couch – placing her water glass on the table in front of the couch, and moving herself to a position in which her face is pressed feed into the couch cushions while resting on her right; her left arm dangles off the couch, and her legs are doing, well they’re doing _something_. Regardless, it’s a good fake-sleeping position and allows her to eavesdrop with relative success.

“- and I don’t know why you put up such a big fuss about the papers – you know you can’t get back through the stones – you told me as much yourself? Didn’t you try?”

“Aye –“

“So you need to find a job, and you can’t do that without papers! Lucky for you this is a pretty common thing for this time of year – people are always coming and going – I’ll ask around for positions open, in the meantime you can help me out here while your documentation comes in, and maybe I can get Miss Beauchamp to show you around town and get you better acquainted with everything. The twenty-first century is rather different than your own, I recon.”

Claire hears him respond, but she isn’t listening.

First of all – he can’t be from the fucking _eighteenth_ century. Time travel is for _Doctor Who_ , for aliens in boxes, people in comics, and not real life.

Second of all – Mrs. Baird is talking about this sort of instance like it happens rather frequently. Like it's every other day that some guy -who claims he’s from the eighteenth century - shows up on your doorstep. What is there – like some office of internal affairs that gives them ID? Like _what_? That’s just bloody mental.

Third, and finally, why the _hell_ is she getting roped into showing this James character around Scotland – he’s the fucking Scot for god’s sake – she’s _English_ and goes to school in _America_. Geillis would be the obvious choice of a tour guide –

She stops thinking and listens again – hearing a faint chorus of voices coming from the kitchen. They’re preoccupied, which means it’s an ideal time to sneak upstairs and scream into her pillow. She sits up, a little dizzy, then attempts to stand. Instead, she loses balance, and trips over the table that’s in the middle of the floor – her water glass, which is on the table spills, and Claire falls over, swearing loudly and colorfully.

Mrs. Baird comes rushing in, James is not far behind her. James says something in what Claire thinks is Gaelic; Mrs. Baird turns to face him, then hits him gently across the chest with the dishcloth that was on her shoulder – and responds with something else that Claire doesn’t quite understand – she can tell James is trying not to smile.

“Can you get up, dearie?” she asks.

“Yeah; Yes. I’m fine. Just a little dizzy.”

“Well, three bottles of wine and an ABBA concert can do that.”

At least Claire has the decency to look sheepish as Mrs. Baird helps her up.

“James,” she turns, “help Claire up the stairs to her room, please. I’ve got things to do and calls to make.”

“Aye,” he says, he offers his arm to Claire, which she begrudgingly takes, “Milady,” he nods with a stupid look to his face, as he eyes her with a strangely. She knows she looks bad, okay? She doesn’t need some stupid fit man (that’s _apparently_ from the eighteenth century) to judge her.

“Shut up,” She mutters as he walks her upstairs.

 

 

* * *

 

  

 

 Geillis leaves not soon after Claire comes back into her room. This gives Claire time to think about the information she’s just been presented with – she’s pacing, and it gets to a point where her mind is just, so completely unable to wrap itself around the present reality that she throws herself onto the bed with a loud sigh and a thud.

This just complicates _everything_.

She came to Scotland to unwind, to be limitless and lose herself in the mundane and the natural. Instead – _instead –_ she’s in a bed and breakfast with a woman who thinks time travel through magic rocks is a normal occurrence and with a two hundred year old _man_ who looks younger than her twenty-seven year old ex-boyfriend. Additionally, she’s been volunteered to show said man around a country that she’s only barely familiar with.

On the bright side – at least she’s not the one that’s been displaced – that really would have taken the cake. 

Plus, touring Scotland with James Fraser will definitely take her mind off her uncle, Frank, and everything else unfortunate in her life.

She’s still for a few minutes, thinking over everything quietly; then she bites her lip in attempt to stop a giggle; the giggle does not stop. She falls into a fit of laughter.

Her life is an absolute joke.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

After dinner that night, Mrs. Baird confronts Claire about the origins of a Mister James Fraser. He’s from 1746, born in the year 1721. Making him two hundred and twenty-five years old. Totally normal.

She says something about how it’s a lot to take in – and keeps rambling about him and how he needs to grow accustomed to the modern customs and culture – the Highlands aren’t what they used to be.

Mrs. Baird mentions off-handedly that he was probably involved in Culloden, which Claire is somewhat familiar with. If Claire’s quick mental calculations are correct, that battle took place in the year of 1746, which means that Mister Fraser himself was probably fresh off the battlefield – which accounts for the excessive amount of dirt and the rather long blade he was wielding last night.

As Mrs. Baird drones on about how sorry she feels for the poor boy – and how something like this happens just about every Halloween, Claire supposes – now with hindsight – that it must have been just as shocking for him to stumble upon her, an English girl in a car while he was expecting a rather large and strenuous battle to be taking place.

Probably more shocking for him, honestly. At least if Claire went through the stones to 1746, she’d know how thing operated. He’s been sent to the unknown future. Kind of puts things in perspective.

Mrs. Baird keeps talking – Claire isn’t even trying to listen at this point –

“Geillis gave me a list of places to visit while I’m here – villages and meadows and whatnot – it’s probably going to be about a weeks journey. He’s welcome to come with me if you think that would be a good idea,” Claire offers, out of pity for both him and herself so she can get the woman to stop talking – she’s got a phone call with Joe scheduled in about ten minutes from now, so the sooner she can wrap up this conversation the better.

There’s a litany of _what a wonderful idea,_ and _I thought you’d never ask_ and other stuff, then Claire excuses herself and tries to figure out just what she’s going to tell Joe over the phone.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

She is thirty minutes into her trip with James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser – as he so eloquently introduced himself during the first ten minutes of their drive out of Inverness. (She later learns that the town of Inverness isn’t a thing back when he’s from, which is a strange thought to think – something that you know for sure not existing).

He’s – well, he’s something.

She can tell how uncomfortable he is – with the clothes, the car, with her – women probably weren’t so abrasive back in the eighteenth century, but she’s not going to put herself on hold for him, that’s for damn sure. So, she’s trying her best to help him acclimate, to get a better sense of this place.

And that starts with the music. She’s not about to listen to folk music all the way to god knows where, but she feels like jazz is a good way to start – the likes of Benny Goodman, Sinatra, and Miles Davis are soothing, and easy listening for all ears. He doesn’t tell her to shut it off, and she’s pretty sure she heard him humming along to _Fly Me to the Moon_ , so she takes that as a win.

 

There are other things, too that she’s started to notice. The way he relaxes when he’s telling stories of his family – specifically his sister and her children – it’s nice, knowing that some things don’t seem to ever change. He dotes on his nieces and nephews, fondly recounts some adventures that he’s had with his godfather and uncle – apparently he had a bit of a price on his head – wanted for murder and treason and an array of petty thefts – even goes so far as to joke about it, and how perhaps jumping forward in time might not have been so bad after all.

Claire laughs despite herself. James smiles.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

They tour ruins that day – Claire isn’t sure which castle this used to be, but James seems to be familiar with it – telling her all the ins and outs. What used to be, what happened here – he’s deep in another place, and Claire feels out of place, like she’s witnessing something private, something holy.

He’s grieving for who he was.

Maybe this trip is less about introductions and more about farewells.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

They stay there for a while, James – or Jamie, as he’s told Claire to call him – is deep in thought, admiration, and something else that Claire isn’t entirely able to put her finger on. They stop to eat the lunch that Mrs. Baird had packed for them, then hit the road. They drive for a little bit longer, Claire spots a nice field with some rare flowers and pulls over, picking a few and putting them between a book that she digs out of her overnight bag (Dickens, _A_ _Tale of Two Cities_ ). Jamie takes that time to step out of the car and stretch his legs out.

He is a big man, and her Fiat is, perhaps, not the most comfortable for him.

They’re back on the road for about fifteen more minutes before they stop in town, have a bite to eat, then head up to the room – which, much to Jaime’s dismay, they’re sharing.

Not by choice, but there’s only one room open, and Claire is on a budget here. She’s not paying for two rooms unless she has to.

All in all, it’s a nice quaint little place. A window is on the west wall, with a beautiful view of the sunset, a rickety old radiator hums beneath it, a little cushioned rocking chair sits quietly in the corner, a queen bed, layered in what looks like warm quilts and afghans, against the north facing, wall looms ominously, and there’s a little dresser along the southern wall. There’s a tiny bathroom on the east wall near the entrance to the room. It’s very simple and reminds Claire faintly of the field near Craigh na Dun – not in likeliness, but in atmosphere.

Calm, peaceful, rustic.

Claire and Jaime stand in the room side by side, after just entering the door. He’s not moving, and, as she must be the first to do everything, she moves and plops her bags down on the dresser then fishes around her bag for a pair of leggings, a fresh pair of undies, a cozy sweatshirt, and her shower stuff while Jamie stands rather stupidly in front of the door.

“I’m gonna quick pop in the shower,” she announces; she’s not sure why, “Make yourself comfy; I’ll take the chair tonight.”

He looks like he’s about to object, but she gets in the bathroom and shuts the door before he has the chance to say anything of the matter to her.

She’s pretty sure he’s talking to himself in Gaelic again, but it is what it is.

She feels gross from the day and lets herself relax for five minutes under the hot water. Lets it soak into her, down to her bones – alleviates the stress and tension and whatever else is within her. For a few brief, blissful moments, it’s just Claire, the hot water, and her gentle humming of _La Vie En Rose_.

Humming turns to quiet singing as she trudges out into the cold air, her skin steaming as she dries herself off with the fluffy white bath towel. As she dresses herself, she tries to prepare for the interesting conversations this evening is going to present.

He’s surely going to ask her what she meant when she told the man at the desk that Jamie was her boyfriend, and will surely be all gallant in refusing the bed – despite the fact that she doubts he’d even fit in the rocking chair, will surely continue to go on about how her reputation will be forever ruined if he stays in the room with her – despite her incessant reassurance that it was absolutely fine.

He is, as she is learning, rather headstrong.

Regardless, her job is to help him figure out how to navigate this new century, and she might as well start here.

She exits the bathroom and finds him sitting in the chair with her copy of _A Tale of Two Cities_ open – she must have forgotten to put it back in her bag after she put the plants in it. He looks up to greet her, a somewhat bashful look upon his face –

She hopes he doesn’t mind how ratty her copy is – it’s got dog eared pages, notes and tabs sticking out of it all over – as it’s one of her favorites.

She offers him a smile – soft and kind as she puts her stuff away, “Showers all yours.”

He rises, marking his page with folded corner, places the book at the head of the bed, and grabs his bag from the floor near where he sits. As he enters the bathroom, Claire claims her spot on the chair and grabs one of the loose afghans from the bed. She grabs her phone and sets herself up under the blanket.

She is not going to sleep well tonight.

The chair is not comfy, the room is too cold for just one blanket, and the chair simply refuses to stay still. It’s fine for scrolling through Instagram, or texting Joe – who is wondering all about the hot guy in the picture of the field on her snapchat story – or reading the news.

She’s deep in thought when he comes back in the room – red hair damp against his head, dressed in a pair of loose fitting sweatpants slung lazily around his hips – Claire hasn’t really had an opportunity to _really_ look at him until right now –

He’s –

She knew he was fit, but _this?_ This is something else.

He’s a Grecian figure if she’s ever seen one – modern Adonis – all muscle, gnarled scars are scattered across his body from fighting, no doubt – a light splattering freckles sprinkles his shoulders – and he’s got a little bit of a tan – probably from wind or sun – she’s not sure how he would have fared in the weather and elements two hundred years ago.

Fact of the matter is he’s fit.

And then he turns around – and his back is covered in scabbed over and scarred lacerations. She gasps – and as soon as she lets out the sound, she wishes she didn’t. He whips around to face her. He’s got a look in his eyes – daring her to say more, to egg him on, to ask him about them.

“Do they hurt?” She asks, quietly. She’s trying to remember where she put her ibuprofen in case he needs some.

“Aye,” he nods; “Mrs. Baird helped wi’ dressing them – look a lot better than they did.”

“I’ve got pain medication if you need anything,” she says, unsure of what else to add.

He nods. Claire tries to go back to minding her own business.

Which is easier said than done when one considers the fact that she’s sharing a bedroom with, perhaps, the fittest man she’s ever seen, and said man has a terrible, grotesque injury upon his back. Claire tries to go back to reading about climate change, instead she ends up texting Joe about how hot this guy is. Jamie pulls back the blankets and sits in bed, then grabs the book and goes on reading. It gets to the point where Joe is being absolutely ridiculous and Claire’s mind refuses to cooperate that she decides to call it a night – she sets an alarm then locks her phone – notices that Jaime’s asleep, then gets up to shut the light off.

Let it be said, that she tried to sleep in the chair for a good hour.

She knows it’s not going to work and it’s feeble to keep trying so she takes a cushion off the chair, and throws it gently to the floor, where she is able to get a good hour and a half of sleep before her body says _absolutely not._

She lies there, for another hour, contemplating not sleeping at all – but she knows she needs to drive tomorrow, and she knows that her new companion barely knows what a car is – let along how to operate one.

She sits up, takes a peek over at the bed, notices that he’s still relatively located on one side, then she says _fuck it._

She’s taking over the other side of the bed – even if the thought of sharing a bed with him does send a little thrill through her.

She tip-toes her way over to the other side of the bed, gently pulls back the covers and slips under the sheets. Pulling them up tight under her neck and curling herself up so that her back is facing Jaime and she’s close to teetering off the edge. Lying on an actual bed feels like bliss – even if it is an awkward position. She closes her eyes and lets the darkness lull her to sleep.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

There’s something about waking up, being warm and enclosed in someone’s embrace, that never fails to make Claire smile. There’s always that feeling of being cared for, of comfort, of safety that makes her feel like the world isn’t such an awful place; It’s the absence of loneliness that really gets her – in the few instances that she has woken up in someone’s arms, that is; there’s the idea of trusting a person so completely with your vulnerable, sleeping form, and there’s an unspoken form of gentle intimacy knowing that there’s someone  beside you, entrusting you with very same.

So when she wakes up, in the middle of the bed, both spooned and embraced by none other than Jamie Fraser, she’s about to have a fucking aneurism. Is she absolutely beyond mortified? Yes, absolutely. Is she really rather comfortable and warm? Yes, absolutely.

Also he smells really good – like Irish Spring soap, and earth, and something she can’t quite pinpoint –

His breath tickles the back of her neck, and she tries not to shiver at the sensation.

Needless to say, this is not how she expected her morning to start. Regardless, she does not mind – not one bit – as being held by him is a rather pleasant experience.

So of course, her alarm goes off. Of course he wakes up instantly, physically recoils himself away from her, and jumps out the bed.

She’s really surprised he didn’t try to stab her – _oh wait_ , that’s happening _right now_ – he’s over her, with a knife in his hand, blade under her chin (which hurts, _goddammit_ ), and a wicked look in his eyes.

Claire doesn’t have it in her to scream, but she is about to piss her pants in terror. There must be something in her eyes that tells him that she’s in no way capable of retaliation, so he removes the blade from under her chin, and eases off of the bed. Claire is too petrified to move.

“I thought ye were sleeping on the chair.” He states, moving over to the dresser where his bag is. He picks out long sleeved shirt puts it on while Claire attempts to regain her wits.

“I was. Then the floor,” she replies, “but then I couldn’t sleep, and if we were going to go anywhere without getting into an accident, I needed a better place to rest – and you were on the other side of the bed, so I didn’t think it was an issue –“

“Not an _issue_?” He repeats incredulously, he’s about to say something more but she cuts him off.

“Apparently, it is an issue,” she huffs, “and it won’t happen again – but I really don’t see why it’s such a big deal.”

“Ye are unmarried, I barely ken you ye – excuse me if I’m thinkin’ the worst of ye right now.”

Claire laughs – he’s not joking. “Jesus Christ,” she mutters to herself; she gets out of the bed, “If I was what you think I am – I can assure you I would put more effort into my appearance. And I’ll have you know I don’t fuck just anyone.”

He scowls, but she continues, “I’m sure this whole experience is jarring for you – and I can’t pretend to understand what you’re going through or how you’re coping with it – but its twenty- _fucking_ -nineteen. Things are _different_. You’re going to be put into uncomfortable situations – ones like that won’t happen again without your permission –but you’re not going to like everything about this century, about the morals or the values or the customs or... or _whatever_. And that’s absolutely understandable – I don’t know what I’d do if I got tossed back to whenever you’re from,” she sighs, “This was my fault and I’m sorry. I was tired and wasn’t thinking.”

He looks like he wants to argue more, but something changes his mind; the scowl on his face grows soft, “Dinna fash,” he sighs, Ye just… took me by surprise is all.”

“I didn’t notice,” she jokes; he cracks a smile, “Anyway, we’ve got be on the road in twenty minutes if we want to get to the next place before the rush – at least that’s what Geillis told me.”

“Whatever ye say, Sassenach.”

She cocks an eyebrow.

“Oh – one question,”

“Hit me,” he gives her a look, clearly not understanding the exact meaning of the question, but goes on to asking her anyway.

“What does ‘fuck’ mean?”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The second day is just as eventful as the first. There’s more driving, more ruins, more flowers; she doesn’t want to listen to jazz today, and after the morning she’s had she feels like she’s got a right to at least listen to an artist that is somewhat modern.

In such spirit – she’s not going to play anything that’s too overwhelming.

She decides that Hozier fits the spirit of the country side quite nicely; perhaps the best part of her day is flying down the winding road at sunset on their way back to the village (where they're staying in a room with a bed _and_ a pull out couch), music blasting – windows cracked. Claire’s singing along to _In a Week_ like it’s just her and god in the car. James is fixated on either her or the scenery outside, and Claire thinks that maybe this is the start of something.

A friendship.

Or something of the sort.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The third day is just the same. Jamie talks a bit more to her, about his life before he came here. A life of adventure, of gallantry, of hating the English –

She mentions something off handedly about how her one friend at university blames the English for every minor inconvenience in her life – Claire supposes she is right – the English are responsible for a quite a bit of carnage and most of modern political issues in some way or another – anyway, the point is, she tells Jaime that he might get along well with her.

He says she sounds like a Scot - and inquires into whether she is one. Claire states that she's not; she is in fact of Irish descent and rather proud of it.

He laughs a deep, earnest laugh – it’s the first time she’s heard it; it’s striking, raw, and honest and she wants to hear it more.

He then asks her about what the descent part means – apparently you either are Irish are you aren’t, which – well, technically he’s correct, but she goes into the whole spiel about America anyway – he listens attentively and asks questions when he doesn’t understand.

He does like the fact that the American rebellion was able to best the British though. He adds something else about how he likes Claire's friend even more knowing that she’s American – starts asking about her life and what not – some of the details Claire doesn’t even know – because she’s only casual friends with this girl.

She offers to show him her picture later – they are Instagram friends after all.

Then he’s asking about the phone – clearly curious about this photograph thing that Claire’s just introduced to him. Before she knows it, he’s fucking around with her own cell phone, taking bad pictures and selfies – accidentally vlogging –

Claire hasn’t laughed this hard since her uncle passed away.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The third day is more of the same – she lets Jamie pick the music today – based off the song titles – needless to say it’s funny. It gets to the point where he’s just so astounded by the music she’s got saved that he turns the volume down and starts singing traditional Scottish songs – in Gaelic, nonetheless.

It’s fun – he’ll sing and then Claire will ask what the songs about, and he’ll explain it to her.

It’s also on this day that she learns that the term “Sassenach” is now her permanent nickname- not that she minds; she finds the whole thing rather endearing.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Geillis has them camping out on the fourth night; Claire ends up sleeping in the car, but Jamie seems to relish the experience of sleeping under the stars again; he tells her as much – when he would go traveling with his uncle, he’d do it quite often. He mentions how there’s something about the sky – unblemished, and the sounds of the night, untouched by man, loud and calming. He likes feeling like he’s one with earth and with god when he sleeps out in the open, vulnerable

He paints a pretty picture, and Claire thinks she would have joined him outside if it were not for the chilly November weather.

 

* * *

 

 

The fifth day, is, well... its fine. It’s now that they’re starting to get bothered with each other. Spending each day together – never separate - is sometimes taxing, and it's really taking its toll. Claire is tired – okay?

She’s tired.

Everything is starting to catch up to her. The fact that she is traveling through Scotland with a complete stranger from a completely different time who doesn’t understand a lot of what going on in the world around her, that her uncle is dead and he’s not coming back, that she hasn’t shared a bed with somebody since Frank left her, that she _really_ needs to start thinking about going back to school now that it's nearing the middle of November – as the spring semester starts in January.

And she’s trying to help Jamie – she _wants_ to help Jamie get acclimated, and she knows that she is, but it’s hard.

It’s hard explaining everything. It’s hard telling him that people don’t act like that anymore, that it’s not taboo for them to share a room, or a bed for that matter. He doesn’t like that she’s paying for everything, or that she’s doing all this stuff, and he doesn’t understand why she wants to be a doctor –

A healer? Fine. But _god_ forbid – physician? He’s never heard of a woman being one.

Claire has to keep telling him that it’s not 1746 anymore, and she’s really trying to laugh it off, but it just all is too much when they’re put into a room with only one bed again. Claire doesn’t say anything when they enter, just walks over to the bed, plops her bag down on the floor, then gets in and closes her eyes in an attempt not to cry.

It’s late, and she’s exhausted.

She hears Jamie scuffle around a little bit, the sound of a zipper, the gathering of clothes, and the opening and closing of the bathroom door. She hears the quiet hum of running water, and she lets out a shaky breath.

She can feel the sharpness in her throat, and she’s really, really trying not to cry – but she’s unable to stop herself.

There’s a quiet sob that shakes her body, and before she knows it, she’s face first into the pillow trying to muffle out the noise. The last thing she needs is for Jamie to walk in and catch her like this.

She knows she’s allowed to be overwhelmed by this – but she also feels guilty – she’s not the one who had to leave everything behind, she’s not the one who’s been displaced two thousand years into the strange and foreign future – she has people to rely upon, and who does Jamie have? He has her? Maybe? Barely?

She hears the water shut off, and she’s really trying to calm herself down now – lifting her head from her pillow and taking deep breaths. It’s working, but you can tell that she was crying. Her eyes feel heavy and puffy – she’s sure her face is red, and the pillow is wet with her tears and stained with the cheap mascara that she found in her glove compartment yesterday.

Best case scenario – he comes out and doesn’t bother her – they’ve been at each other’s throats all day, so his not wondering after her wouldn’t really bother her that much

But some stupid part of her wants him to inquire after her. She wants to let it all out to someone who’ll listen – and she knows that he’ll listen.

He comes back in the room, puts his stuff away. She knows he’s not going to sleep in the bed unless she tells him he can, so she does.

“You can have the other side, if you’d like.”

She doesn’t bother to look up; her voice sounds soggy and ill-used. She hears him move about the room for a little – the weight of his footfalls make the old floorboards creak, then the lights are off with the flick of a switch, and she feels his weight on the bed as he sits and lies down.

Claire scoots closer towards the edge, taking a deep, shaky breath – somehow on the verge of tears yet again.

She doesn’t even want to cry again – she just needs an emotional release; a release that she knows she isn’t going to get here, in this room.

She takes another deep breath, this one includes a hiccup and she really just wishes that she could shut up.

She feels Jamie shift on the mattress, and she does her absolute best to stay as still as she possibly can; it doesn’t work. She’s fidgety and tense and she absolutely hates it. Claire’s pretty sure he’s sitting up, back against the headboard, and she's waiting for him to poke the bear. If she can’t cry, she might as well scream at someone.

Except he doesn’t egg her on, instead – he asks her if she’s alright –

It just comes gushing out of her like a waterfall. She sits up, in the middle of her outburst – she feels like she has to at least try to look at him while she’s saying all this stuff. She misses who she was before everything happened – at least when she was with her uncle, that was normal – she never really knew her parents; they died when she was very young – it was Uncle Lamb that raised her and cared for her – and he’s _gone_.

And Frank – she _thinks_ Frank loved her. She knew he did, at least in the beginning. She misses the feeling of being carefree with him, of having a hand to hold and to kiss – she finally admits how much it devastated her to find out that he was cheating on her – how she didn’t even really blame him for leaving her when he could have someone like Becky – blonde, pretty, complacent.

Then there the whole _what the fuck am I even doing in Scotland_ right now part of her breakdown which goes on for a bit longer than she would have liked. It’s doing this stage that she rests her head against Jamie’s shoulder. She’s then somehow moved so that she’s crying into his chest with one of his arms around her and his head resting gently on top of hers.

It’s nice, to be listened to by someone objective to most of her life – by Jamie. Sweet Jamie, who whispers Gaelic as she calms down. Kind Jamie, who apologizes for all the hardship he’s caused her – even though he has absolutely nothing to be sorry for. Wonderful Jamie, who holds her as she ruins his shirt with tears and snot and all the gross parts of crying.

Jamie. Jamie. Jamie Fraser – who despite being absolutely terrified of sleeping on the same bed as her a few nights ago, lets her fall asleep in his arms.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

It’s on the sixth day that Claire realizes that she’s growing really awfully fond of James Fraser.

It’s also on the sixth day that Jamie takes his first good selfie of the two of them.

Claire posts it on her Instagram later that day.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The seventh day is, well, it’s the end of her trip. She and Jamie are friends – good friends. She’s made plans to keep in touch with him while she’s still in Scotland and to eventually write to him when she gets back to the States and finishes out her last semester of university.

He keeps talking about how he can’t wait to get a phone so he can start listening to music of his own (and so he can send her songs that he thinks she might like!) and make stupid vlogs to send to her when she misses him while she’s in America.

When they arrive back at the bed and breakfast, they’re chatting incessantly about absolute nonsense – Claire showed him one of her favorite Vines and he just will not stop talking about it – and Claire knows that despite the absolute strangeness around the whole thing, she is going to miss the time they spent together.

He’s got to get acclimated to life here in Inverness – he’ll be working, doing his thing, and she’ll be here for another month, just wasting away.

It would almost be easier if she just went back to the States now.

But there’s something in the light twinkle of his blue eyes that makes think she’d never forgive herself if she left without getting to know him a little better.

So, she decides to stay.

She decides to stay, and she promises to visit him at work once he gets a job. Then she tells him he stinks, and he should probably shower – to which he replies something along the lines of how she would never survive the rancid odor of gross smelling people in eighteenth century.

She swears at him in jest, and he laughs again as he makes his way up the stairs of the bed and breakfast.

Claire herself meanders into the living room, and collapses onto the couch with a sigh.

She’s absolutely _royally_ fucked – and it’s all Jamie Fraser’s fault.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The next month is both slow and fast. There are days where she does absolutely nothing. There are days where she goes back to her field near Craigh na Dun and just sits in the field of fresh, sparkling snow admiring the land and the quiet. There are days where she curls up by the fire and reads all day or goes out to a café or something to do the same thing.

There are days where she goes to visit Jamie at work – he works with horses on the outskirts of town for some guy who does tours by horseback across the country side.

It makes Claire happy to see her friend so happy – and Claire is very sure he’s happiest with the horses.

She remembers him telling her of how he used to care for them back home, and how he always feels content working with a horse. She can see that’s the truth as she waits near the gate – lunch basket in hand while he works with one.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Being with Jamie makes time non-existent all together. She can’t recall the last time being with someone felt like this – felt so carefree and relaxed. He’s fit in quite well in the modern world – he’s got a phone and everything, mind you (and uses it more proficiently than Claire does) and she’s just happy to know that he’s been able to make a life for himself here. In this day and age, in this place.

She’s more than happy to know that there’s a place for her in his life.

There’s just something about him that makes her want to spill her guts –

But then again, she’s never had a friend like him. He’s just as brash and honest as she is – just in a different way. He’s got a mouth on him, too – worse than a sailor (gives Claire a run for her money, that’s for damn sure). He confides in her like she’s a priest in a confessional -  she knows of all his trauma and hardship, and he knows all her deepest fears. 

She’s never been like this with another person before.

It absolutely terrifies her, and she loves it.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Mrs. Baird and a few of Claire’s friends have decided to throw her a going-away-slash-Christmas party. It’s two nights before her flight, so she’s absolutely able to have the time of her life. She’s excited to be heading back to the States – she’s got all her classes picked for the spring semester. She’s ready to get back into the student mentality, but she can’t help the bittersweet taste in her mouth that comes with leaving this place.

Which is how she finds herself in her field again, lying in the snow, letting the flakes slowly bury her alive.

The fact of the matter is that she’s going to miss her friends.

She’s going to miss Geillis, and her crazy chaotic lifestyle. She’s going to miss Mrs. Baird, and her biscuits and rambling. She’s going to miss the shop keepers, and her Fiat, and this quaint little city.

And she absolutely knows she’s going to be devastated when she leaves Jamie behind.

Jamie, who Claire has come to know as a dear, dear friend. Jamie, who cares so deeply and passionately. Jamie, who sends her songs that remind him of her –

She cares about him a whole awful lot – more than she should, considering that he’s threatened her life more than a few times, that he so abruptly upturned her life, and that he’s a terribly handsome man who’s just about 200 years her senior (not that you could possibly tell).

She _fancies_ him.

And it terrifies her.

So much so that she’s almost excited to get out of the country. The distance will either make her realize that she’s ardently and foolishly in love with him, or she’s just attached to him now because he stumbled upon her at the right time and place.

(Honestly, both options scare the shit out of her.)

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The party is fun.

Mrs. Baird has the whole place ready for Christmas – garland, lights, wreaths, mistletoe; it’s the whole nine yards like Claire’s only seen in the movies. It really just puts her in a celebratory mood.

Although, it’s more of an intimate gathering than a party – and Claire really doesn’t recognize most of the people here, so yes, she’s spending a lot of time downing wine in the corner with Geillis – chatting. Jamie isn’t here yet – she knows this because instead of really listening to Geillis, she is people watching – looking for his bright red hair, his tall frame, or just, him in general.

Geillis recognizes this behavior immediately and teases Claire about it.

She’s too worried about Jamie forgetting about her to even care –

It’s not like he would forget though, right?

Claire pushes the thought out of her head. He told her he was coming that afternoon when she visited him at the stables. He said he was looking forward to it, even, and that he’d see her later.

So, he’s either died or he’s running late.

She finishes the last sip in her wine glass, the stands up to go to the kitchen – excusing herself from Geillis, who just smiles all too knowingly.

Claire hates that Geillis has that sense – because _of course_ she knows Claire’s going on a scouting mission. Granted, an idiot could sense it, but Geillis is the nearest idiot, so she gets most of the blame.

That’s how she finds herself alone in the kitchen, pouring herself a tall glass of Pinot Grigio, convincing herself that the guy she may or may not fancy will show up because he told her he would.

And Jamie is nothing if not honest.

Besides – if he wasn’t coming, he would have texted her or something – like he usually does. She hasn’t checked her phone in a while – so she decides that now’s as good a time as ever to do that –

And there we have it – one text from him from six minutes ago

**_Running late. Will be there shortly._ **

She shoots him a short little response, hears the whooshing sound of a sent message, then the ping of a received one coming from behind her –

“Jamie!” she shouts, as she turns around to see her friend standing in the doorway. He’s smiling, cheeks as red as his hair from the December chill. He’s got on the cutest little Christmas sweater – which barely fits him, “I’m so glad you made it!”

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

Claire hugs him – it’s not a gentle embrace, mind you, this is a _I’m a little tipsy at a Christmas party and I think I fancy you_ type of hug, and he seems more than into it after the initial shock. She does let go, because she’s not an idiot. Standing there, embracing him in the doorway for too long would be weird.

So, she lets go of Jamie, and they chat.

Idle chatter – about Christmases past, of traditions (and Claire’s lack of them). He talks about the horses, she talks about how excited she is to go back to school now that everything’s behind her, how she can’t wait to start writing to him, and to get his vlogs from across the pond.

They share town gossip, share a couple bad jokes –

This goes on for a good two hours, at least – before Geillis interrupts them to grab a bottle of wine. As Geillis is leaving, Jamie says that he’s actually gotten her a present – it’s out in the car and he’s running out to go get it – he makes her promise that she won’t move from this spot.

Claire promises she won’t.

Geillis eyes her funnily, tells Claire that she’s an idiot, then leaves the kitchen.

Jamie comes back not three minutes later with a small present, wrapped in brown paper tied up with green twine.

“You really didn’t have to get me anything,” she says as she tears into the paper with ease.

“Aye, I did,” he says fondly, “After everything that ye’ve done for me, it’s the least I could do.”

Claire gives him a look, but opens the box anyway –

“Jamie –“ she whispers, “They’re beautiful.”

In the box sits a pair of creamy white near-round pearl earrings. They’re absolutely stunning – and she’s really trying to keep it all together – a few rogue tears slip out of the corner of her eye – she’s not used to receiving like this.

Then she remembers - she didn’t get him anything. A laugh slips out.

“What’s so funny, Sassenach?” he asks. She moves her gaze from the jewelry in her hands to the clear blue of his eyes.

“I don’t have anything for you.”

He smiles – like he wasn’t expecting anything anyway.

“Dinna fash,” he shakes it off, but Claire’s thinking of something that she can give to him – something that’s sentimental –

“Actually, second thought, follow me; I do have something for you,” she takes his hand and leads him up the stairs, ignoring the few eyes that trace their movements. She enters the room, closes the door, places the earrings down on the dresser, and goes looking for her carry-on bag and the books that are packed away inside

“It’s not nearly as pretty as what you got me, but it’ll do,” she digs around for a few seconds, “ah, here we go.”

 _A Tale of Two Cities_ sits in her hands, worn and used but loved, “It’s yours, if you’ll take it.”

“Claire, I –“ he looks stunned but moves forward to take the book out of her hands, “Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome,” she says.

She suddenly notices the proximity of their bodies – he’s a nose away from her; her dark, brown eyes are gazing deep into his own blue ones. If she wanted to, she could count the light splatting of freckles across his nose, she could trace the light scars on his cheeks, she could hold his face in her own two hands and never let go. Her eyes flit down to his lips, which are chapped from the cold of the winter.

He’s still looking at her, with something deep and potent behind his eyes, when he lets a tiny breath pass through his lips.

Claire decides then and there that she’ll die if she doesn't kiss him tonight.

She decides she's not dying tonight.

Jamie does not kiss like anyone she’s ever kissed before. He is not gentle, nor cautious. He is a hurricane – all unbridled and intense and absolutely thrilling. He’s fast and wanting and everything that other men aren’t.

He bites down on her bottom lip – and she’s not embarrassed to say that she felt something there - she might have even moaned a little. There’s a tingling in her – and it’s not just lust, it’s something more. It’s something that she knows is more than fondness, more than just wanting to fuck it out.

She wants him, that’s for sure, but she also wants that intimate connection with him – companionship.

She wants to feel loved.

She wants to be loved by him.

She’s in love with him.

She pushes that out of her mind as he pushes her on the bed. She lands with a giggle – still looking at him like he hung the moon – and he the same as he looms above her.

“Jamie – “ she says as he goes to kiss her again, her hands are above her head, held by his own, but _god_ she just wants to touch him – touch his face, his hair, his chest –

She wants to touch him and make him her own – _oh god,_ he’s kissing her neck now, gentle, soft, and slow. He’s moving down now, leaving Claire breathless as he marks her skin with tender bruises as he sees fit. She says his name again, as he moves towards her chest –

She’s glad she chose to wear this dress – a little red number with an a less than modest neckline.

He moves back up her neck, kisses her cheeks, her forehead, then moves back to her lips – mumbling little things in Gaelic when he’s not touching her. She tries to wiggle the sleeves of her dress off her shoulders and arms –

He notices her ministrations, and lets out an amused breath, “Let me help ye with that.”

She smiles up at him, earnestly, as removes himself from above her, allowing her to sit up.

“There’s a zipper.”

“Aye,” He moves so that he’s behind her on the bed, he traces the line of her shoulders to the back of her neck, gently plays with the brown curls that land just below her shoulder, then kisses the crook of her neck. Her head tilts back at the feeling. He keeps littering her back and shoulders with kisses as he slowly pulls the zipper down and pushes the dress off her.

Claire turns to face him – all nerves and pale skin in the dim light of the room, but the light in Jamie’s eyes makes her feel wanted, and the nerves dissipate just as quickly as they came. He looks at her with a fondness of the likes that she’s never experienced before, but she relishes it – wants to hold onto this moment forever.

He says something else to her in his native tongue, and she doesn’t understand a lick of what he’s saying, but she can’t help but think it’s an endearment – with the gentle but hungry look upon his face, with the soft inflection and lilt, and with the look of absolute adoration in his eyes.

Claire kisses him – hard. Fiercer than she’s ever kissed anyone before. She moves closer to his lap, bringing her hands near the nape of his neck to play with the little loose curls while his hands move up the front of her body. He’s holding her breasts in the palms of his hands, and Claire thinks that she’d cut out her heart for him to hold as well, if he asked for it.

She’s pushing him back on the bed, so that she’s above him, when the door suddenly bursts open – Claire’s never been more aggravated in her life. 

“Thought I heard someone fall up here, just wanted to make sure everything was alright,” Comes the lofty, self- assured voice of Geillis from the doorway.

Claire does not turn around, instead she chooses to keep her nasty facial expression a secret – one that only Jamie can see as she responds, “We’re fine, Geillis.”

“Glad to hear it. Best leave you to it.”

“ _Fuck off_.”

The door closes – Jamie is smiling at her like she’s the best thing since sliced bread –

“Yer something else, Sassenach, ye ken?”

She kisses him again, softly.

“I know.”

The wanton passion that she felt before has dissipated – now she’s filled with a soft sort of intimate longing. She just wants to be held by him, to sleep in the comfort of his arms and to never leave his embrace.

She sighs, removing herself from on top of him, “We better head back down soon; they’ll start to inquire after us, and I’d rather not have Mrs. Baird see my tits.”

He sits up, smirk on his face, “Well, I don’t see why she’d be disappointed; they’re mighty fine, Sassenach.”

She rolls her eyes, “Shut up,” she pulls her sleeves back up, “help me with my zipper.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

They return downstairs, Geillis gives them a knowing look, but everyone else seems impervious to their disappearance. Jamie doesn’t stray from her side. Claire’s heart beats a mile a minute for the rest of the party, which only goes on for an hour more; then it’s just Mrs. Baird, the Reverend (who is one of Mrs. Baird’s close friends), Geillis, Jamie and herself sitting around the kitchen table exchanging stories over glasses of whiskey.

Geillis is the first to leave. She wishes Claire a safe journey and tells her to keep in touch or else – a threat that Claire doesn’t take lightly. The Reverend is the next to leave – Claire isn’t really that well acquainted with him, but he wishes her a kind goodbye. Mrs. Baird then decides to retire for the night, wishes both her and Jamie a good night, then heads up the stairs.

Jaime and Claire sit at the table – giggling and chatting for another half hour before Jamie decides it’s time for him to head out.

They’re about to leave, when Claire remembers that he’s left the book upstairs in the room.  

“Oh – Your book! Let me get it real quick.”

She dashes up the stairs, and finds the book on the floor near the head of the bed, tries desperately not to think of what she and Jamie did, then rushes down the stairs –

“Got it!”

He laughs, “Can’t forget the most important book in the world, now can we?”

“Never,” she smiles, takes his hand in her own, and walks out the door with him.

His is the only car on the street – an old, grey thing. Claire dreads the sudden approach.

This is probably going to be their goodbye.

Claire hates goodbyes.

They stand there, for a moment, in silence while a flurry falls around them. Claire wishes she had grabbed her jacket before going out. She hates shivering. Jamie notices and envelopes her into a tight hug.

She’s got a million things she wants to say to him right now, but she doesn’t. If she says them it’ll really be a goodbye.

And this isn’t goodbye.  This is an informal parting of two somehow kindred souls. She’ll see him again. She’s going to correspond with him. She’s going back to school to get her degree, then get into another school so that she can be a doctor.

This is not the end.

This is not a goodbye.

She hopes he feels similarly; she’s not sure she’ll be able to take it if he says something about how fond he is of her, because she’s very sure that of he did, she’d throw away all her hopes and dreams and elope with him that very second.

“See ye around, Claire,” he says, then kisses the top of her head. He lets go of her suddenly, offers her a brief smile that doesn’t quite do the job, then gets in the car. He turns the keys to the ignition, then he’s off without as much as a look back or a wave.

Claire is left standing alone in the cold, the ghost of a goodbye on her lips.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

She wakes up in the middle of the afternoon the next day, still in her party dress.

She’s more than lethargic, and she’s got a pounding headache – and the ghost of Jamie’s touch pulls her into the depths of hell. She feels like she's suffocating in the house, the memories haunt her so much that she wants to scream.

It would have been better, she thinks, if she hadn’t kissed him at all. She could have lived happily without knowing how his lips felt against hers, without knowing how he could bruise her body so tenderly, without knowing the adoration in his eyes when he looked at her like that.

So she tries to keep her mind off of it.

That is easier said than done, but party cleanup and packing help.

The day, for the most part, goes by quickly, as a usual last day of a holiday does. She’s more than ready to leave this place.

After dinner, she tells Mrs. Baird she’s got an errand to run, and she’ll be back soon. Claire grabs her jacket and the keys to the car, then drives off in the direction of Cragh na Dun.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The night is young and cold.

Claire finds that appropriate as she walks out into the field that she’s become so familiar with. Her constant companion, her solace – this field is where she goes when she needs to find peace. She wishes she had a place like this back in Boston – where she could go to confess to the vast nothing and everything of nature. She'll have to find one, when she gets back. 

She stands – chin up, high and mighty with her eyes on the moon. The lovely moon, full of light and love and of everyone’s secrets.

She stares down the moon – eyes lit with anguish and vindication, and whispers like a man possessed:  _I love you, I love you. I love you._

Claire is alone, but she knows the wind listened. This place is magic after all, so when she hears the echoes of her confession in the trees, she's not surprised. She's full of both heartbreak and satisfaction. If she's not going to tell Jamie, she might as well tell the rest of the world, the country he loves so much, the place where they met. 

Maybe this is her goodbye. Maybe this is her, leaving a piece of herself in this place - so that he'll have something to remember her by. Maybe she's just being daft in hoping that when she's gone the trees will tell him how she felt. 

She inhales a deep, cold breath. _It's done_ , she thinks, and walks back to her car, wrapping her coat tighter around her body to keep out the chill. 

Her flight leaves early in the morning, and she wants to get a good amount of rest to ensure that she won’t miss it.

 

 

 

 

 

****

****

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> comments and kudos are the bee's knees!
> 
> also! heres the playlist link!!! 
> 
> https://open.spotify.com/user/akanarvy/playlist/48mJyagtPx97pJVU3gquxk?si=ztqQkX2RRH6YKUYyeUVnxg


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